When he was sixteen, Big met Mickey in town, bagging groceries at the local supermarket. Mickey, from what I understand, from his story that night so long ago, had helped bag Big’s groceries and carried them out to Big Dick’s Harley. Mickey thought it was cool so Big let him sit on it. Which, let me point out, isn’t something most bikers allow. They got to talkin’, only the way Big can. And by the time he was finished, he’d decided to prospect Mickey at sixteen, which is unheard of and served club justice to Mickey’s stepdad. I never did hear what happened to that man; he doesn’t live ‘round here no more. But I do know Mickey’s been here ever since. And because of how fucked up his past was, Mickey has this sick and twisted need to mick, aka drug, all of his whores before he anal rapes them by tying them to his bed with a necktie and gagging them. It’s fucked up. I know. Like, real sick shit. However, Big Dick keeps an eye on him so he doesn’t hurt the women. Most of the time they wake up the next morning on the common room couch a bit sore, with no recollection of what happened.

  Mickey’s been with us for a little less than ten years. So his exploits and kinks have sort of become common knowledge among the regular whores by now. As a result, he’s now the one who goes scouting to bring in fresh meat to prey on, which isn’t hard for him to do, considering the man is quite attractive with his short blonde hair, baby blue eyes, and a tall athletic body. He’s eye candy for sure. And he’s always been nice to me, respectful of all the brothers and their old ladies. Never had an instance where he’s tried to prey upon me or anyone else I’m close with. He may be a bit of a freak in bed, but in the everyday, he’s more gentleman than most.

  “You ready for bed?” Debbie pats me atop my shoulder, snapping me from my musings.

  We’ve made our way home already, and I’ve been lounging on the couch for the past half an hour mulling over my thoughts and sobering up before I lay down to catch some Zzzz’s.

  “I will in a bit.”

  She plops down beside me, throwing my legs over hers. “Tell me.”

  “Tell you what?” I raise a quizzical brow, sinking further down into the plushness of the couch.

  “Tell me how you’re feeling about this whole claiming stuff. I know you, Bink. I know you act strong. You try to tell yourself that you don’t want him. You want to rebel. But you forget, I’ve also known you a long time and I’ve seen the way you and Big are together. So it’s not very surprising to see that he wants to claim you. You’re a catch, and you would be good for him,” Debbie explains, in the quiet dimness that surrounds us. Her eyes are softly trained on me, watching my reactions.

  To refrain from sounding rude, I squash the scoff I want to impart. I ask her a question instead, “Why do you think that?”

  “You’re the yin to his yang. He’s the hard, and you’re the soft. You keep him grounded, and he in return keeps you on your toes. He may piss you off, but you have to admit your life is a lot more fun with him around. Big’s also the man who took you shopping for a dress when you attended homecoming. Do you remember that? He’s also the one who brought your corsage and rode you on the back of his Harley to the dance. And the one who stayed outside of that dance the entire night to make sure you were safe and having a good time. Do you forget those times? The times he’s been there for you when your daddy was too caught up in Lindy Sue or on a run. I don’t think you know how many times that man stayed home from a run that he wanted to go on just so he could keep an eye on you. To make sure your mom or some other asshole didn’t hurt or upset you. From an outsider it might look like he’s domineering, like we all know him to be. But from my view, as a mother and a wife, those are the kind of things you do for the person you love most.”

  Fat tears drip down my cheeks, as I cry in silence. I know Debbie is right. I know it wholeheartedly. But that doesn’t mean I want to be his. It doesn’t mean I want this lifestyle with him by my side. To be tied down as an old lady to the same man for the rest of my life. Fuck…I don’t know what I want. And the hardest part of it all is I have no idea why this is all coming to a head now? Why this huge blow up of emotions and obligations? A little thing here or there I can handle. This entire thing all at once is way too overwhelming to decipher without losing my own mind in the process.

  And, yes, I’m not ignoring the facts. I do remember my homecoming like it was yesterday, just like I do everything else Big’s ever done for me, which, in retrospect, is a whole lot more than anyone else.

  That night was one of the best nights of my high school life. Two weeks before the dance, I approached Big in his office. When I arrived, he was clicking away on his computer.

  Knocking on the door, I saw myself inside.

  “What can I help ya with?” he asked.

  “I’ve got a homecoming dance, and I need a dress.”

  Big stopped what he was doing and leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers, elbows perched on his armrest. “Pink? Long? Covering all of your boobs? Yeah?” he said.

  I nodded. “Yeah.”

  “I’ll make some calls and take you to that boutique in town tomorrow,”Big decisively stated, and that was that. I left the room and went about my business. The next day after school, he’d picked me up, and we rode to the boutique. The place was locked when we arrived. With a quick knock on the front glass door, the owner scurried across her shop to let us in.

  “Hello, Richard. I’ve been expecting you,” the pretty brunette owner singsonged, seeing us inside with the wave of her hand.

  “Good day, Janet. Did you find what I asked for?”

  Janet had, and on a tall metal rack hung four elegant, floor length pink dresses for me to try on. Big sat on an oversized couch, nodding his approval for the two he loved and shook his head for the two he didn’t. In the end, I chose the hot pink gown with crystal encrusted bodice that came with a shawl, matching heels, and a rhinestone choker.

  Two weeks later, after I had gotten dressed up at the compound, letting Debbie fix my hair and makeup, Big showed up at my door carrying a dainty white rose wrist corsage, wearing his cut over a charcoal grey dress shirt and black tie. It was one of the only times I’ve ever seen Big in a tie. It made him look mighty handsome.

  “For you, my lady.” He sweetly bowed, and I curtsied, my cheeks turning crimson from his unexpected debonair style.

  Pictures were taken in the common room and outside under the stars. The brothers even got their chance to see me in my dress and twirl me around a few times, catcalling and praising how beautiful I’d become. It made me blush, but I was proud. Afterward, arm-in-arm, Big escorted me from the clubhouse and onto the back of his bike. We rode in silence to the dance. When we arrived, he kindly walked me, at a snail’s pace due to my absurd heel height, to join my group of friends who were eye banging my escort as we approached them outside of the school’s revamped gymnasium. Every one of my friends growing up thought it was so cool that I grew up on the Sacred Sinners' compound and that our President was a dreamboat. I never saw it as a kid. I do now. Big is what women’s wet dreams are made of.

  I had a blast at the school dance that night, and at midnight, after it was over, Big was still sitting on his hog, reading a Stephen King novel and awaiting my return with a polished grin on his face.

  “Did you have fun?” he asked, offering me his hand to help me onto the back of his bike.

  “Yes, lots. Thanks for the ride and the dress.” I climbed on, pulling my dress up so my legs could straddle his classic metal beast.

  “It was my pleasure.” Big turned over the engine and we rode off into the starry night. We didn’t go home right away. Big took us along the back roads, where the cool, crisp, invigorating air blasted us in the face. I laughed happily as I held my hands in the air, catching the wind, and my hair blew out behind me in a mess of waves. I felt safe. I felt free. And on the back of Big’s bike, after my homecoming dance, I felt like I was on top of the world. He’s what made that special ride extra special. Even when he was worried and his arm curved backward, wrapping around my waist, to keep me safe and secure on his ride, while I let loose, relishing in my fun, and strangely spectacular life.

  Returning to the compound, Big helped me from the bike. Then he held my hand as I stood in the dirt and kicked off my blister inducing heels. Big then stole them from my hands one at a time and tucked them under his muscled arm, anchoring them to his body for safekeeping, as he walked me to my bedroom door.

  “Goodnight, sweetheart.” He hugged me tightly and kissed my forehead. That was the end of one of the best nights of my life.

  “You know I’m right,” Debbie insists, breaking me away from my fond memories.

  “I know you are. I know Big loves me, but I never thought of it more than as a father-figure taking care of his daughter,” I admit with complete honesty. Even as an adult, I’ve never, not once, gotten this itch,or this inkling that Big was ever interested in me, in you know, more than a father-daughter sort of way. Not until this week. Thirty years of one way, then you run smack dab into a brick wall going ninety miles an hour on a one way street, and suddenly you are forced to head in a whole other direction off the proverbial beaten path. The one where Big, has decided, for whatever fucked up reason, to claim me. Correction, no, he wants to attempt to claim me. That is not going to happen. Over my dead body.

  “You know, I didn’t either. At first,” Debbie explains.

  “How so?”

  “Well, I knew you sort of had a rough childhood with your mom being a bitch and all. Big never liked her, so she stayed away. I found that odd, and when I brought it up to Dallas, he told me what your mom had done to you. By basically hating you and casting you aside. So I assumed Big kind of took Steel’s place, alongside Gunz as father figures. That’s how I’d seen it, with you three since I began messing around with Dallas. But it was about…” She looks deep in thought. Gliding her hand up my foot, she stops, her soft hand wrapping around my bare ankle. “I think you’d just finished college. So you’d been what? Twenty-four? Twenty-five?”

  “Twenty-three, almost twenty-four,” I correct.

  “Right… Well, it was around then. Christmas time, I think. I had been sitting at the bar with Dallas and Candy Cane. Tripper was out on a run, so I was keeping her company. Big was in one of his foul moods, cursing everything up one side and down the other. I figured it was club business. Until I heard him yelling at one of the club whores to get into his bed. Gunz didn’t like the way Big was treating this newer girl. To be honest, I was worried about her too. Everyone knows of Big’s fuck stories, and we all know he has a big dick. I was pretty sure that girl couldn’t handle a man like him; I know there’s not many who can. Gunz musta thought the same because he ended up pinning Big to the wall in front of everyone. Getting in his face, Gunz yelled for him to stop his shit and that you weren’t serious with whatever boyfriend you were dating at the time. From what I gathered, Big was on a rampage because he’d thought you were getting serious with some boy you were seeing. Something about bringing him home for Christmas to meet the brothers,” she explains, and I know the exact time and the man she’s talking about.

  “That was Tony. And he never came to Christmas. I had wanted him to. Daddy had given his okay, but a week before Christmas, Tony and I got into a huge fight and broke up. Then the day after Christmas I found out he’d slept with someone else. A few months later, I saw him at our bike shop, getting his Harley repaired. Tony ended up apologizing to me and asking for another chance, which I never gave him,” I clarify trudging up ancient history of a man who was only good for one thing…cooking. Tony was a pretty amazing chef, and I learned a lot from him in that respect. In the bedroom, he was bland. And on the outside, he was a geek who played Magic card games, but just so happened to ride a pretty sweet motorcycle.

  “I didn’t meet him, did I?”

  “No.” I shake my head, reclining my neck over the arm of the couch, staring at the ceiling. “He was short lived, as are most of my relationships.” If that’s not the truth, I don’t know what is. Lots of different men of all shapes and sizes, the majority of them owning some form of motorcycle or hot rod. I met most of them in bars, and once or twice at a car show or a non-S. S. motorcycle fun run. I participate in a few of those a year to help raise money for the local literacy program and one for the local animal shelter. My prized Harley, Black Betty, being as though she’s pink, black, vintage, and has a custom crystal encrusted seat along the edges brings the onlookers and flirty guys out of the woodworks. Tony was one of those men.

  Truth is, I’m a rarity around these parts, which isn’t necessarily a good thing. Most women are happy to ride bitch behind their old man, motorcycle club associated or not. It’s the way of the world. But as usual, I refuse to conform to society’s ideals and precast notions. I am my own woman. I chose my own path. And I decide what I will or won’t allow to control the path I’ve worked so hard to stay on.

  I can’t lie and say it was a walk in the park to grow up in this lifestyle. It wasn’t. It’s rough. It’s hard. It’s a dog-eat-dog world out there, and in here, it’s a hundred times worse. You live where club and country don’t always see eye to eye. And to be honest, that is the toughest of our laws to swallow down without upchucking in the process.

  Here’s some serious food for thought… What happens in the regular world when a woman comes to your house and shoots you at point blank range in the shoulder? She goes to jail, right? It’s simple. Black and white. Now put your MC goggles on, and view it from our in-house legislature. Big Dick’s word is God. What he says, goes. If Big declares war on her and her family, then we go to war. If he demands we leave her be, then we do just that. Sure, the brothers go to Church to hash out the tougher rulings. In spite of that, Big Dick still holds the largest amount of power, which could be considered scary if he were a hothead or loose cannon. Fortunately, he’s neither. Mean, unyielding, and brash…yes… Unjust or reckless? Never.

  Our club is under constant scrutiny from outside sources, other clubs, and roadblocks. Then you’ve got the inner sanctum you have to navigate around and stricter rules to follow in order to stay in the green. I’ve been reprimanded a time or two for speaking out of turn. That’s my biggest offense. But that’s also the main area I am most lucky in. I can go off the reservation, and let my mouth run, with little to no consequences in return. Other than a rather abrasive tongue lashing always delivered by the President himself. That is something I must say I am most thankful for. Other old ladies would be shunned, like my mother, for pulling some of the shit I have. However, I think over the years people have grown to realize I’m a fair person. Until you, or in most cases, Big gets under my skin, and I blow up like the atomic bomb.

  Not quite sure why I am spelling all this out for you at three in the morning. But there it is. Take it or leave it. Anyhow, I think it’s time for me to hit the hay. I’m sure I have a long week ahead of me.

  Sliding my legs off Debbie’s, I stand and wave her a good night on my way to my room, that’s down at the end of the hall, where the walls are lined with vintage motorcycle paintings and black sconces every step of the way.

  Chapter Eight

  Monday, September 16, 2013

  “You’re sure you aren’t coming?” Pixie stands in my bedroom doorway, hip perched on the frame, looking cute as ever in her black jean skirt and blue slinky off the shoulder top. That matches perfectly with the blue streaks of color in her hair and all those brightly colored tattoos.

  “No, I’m not coming,” I evenly confirm, lying in bed, ankles crossed, hands tucked behind my head in a lax position. It’s been days since I’ve left Big’s house to go anywhere but to help the other old ladies at my brother’s. Their calls have become more and more infrequent the longer they are there. So I’ve kept to myself and done the girlfriend thing by chatting and socializing with my Sacred Sisters when they are here. But every night since the Big and Bink blowout, they’ve been in the clubhouse for both lunch and dinner. Apparently all of the club rules were tossed out of the window when we went under lockdown, which is still in effect and I hate it.

  I also haven’t seen or heard from Big in days. Although I do know that he’s taken a shift or two guarding the property, but he’s kept himself outside on the porch and not set a foot inside. All the while, I’ve spent countless hours alone. I’ve tried to keep myself busy and my mind off of the giant pain in my ass. Unfortunately, my efforts have gone to shit in a hand basket. If I’m not thinking about him wanting me to be his old lady, I’m thinking about what he’s doing, or how much my pussy is missing his tongue. Most of all, I just miss him. To be frank, this is probably the longest length of time since I was born that I haven’t seen or heard from him. Sure, we didn’t communicate daily. But every other day at the very least. Even if it was a small, ‘Hey, how ya doin’?’ or ‘When ya bringin’ me some more of those delicious cookies?’ texts. And before texts even existed, AOL dialup was the latest craze, and I was living here full time, so I saw him every single day unless he was away. Even then, I’d hear from him more than I am now. I truly hate to admit this, but I feel like I’m missing a limb or something worse. Guess you don’t realize how much a person is a part of your life until they simply aren’t.

  Am I happy to do without the grumpy, grumbly Big? Yes… But I’d take the whole package if it meant I got the nice, caring side too.

  Listen, I get that I’m a girl, and that we’re notorious for wishy-washy minds. I’ve just never considered myself to fall into that category until now. One second I hate him, the next I miss him. It’s a real hormonal mind fuck that I desperately wish would go away. I’m certain that if I was working and not cooped up here all day every day, I’d stop this incessant reel of emotions that I seem to be experiencing 24/7. Feelings that I can’t seem to grasp quite yet.